“I have not seen her since; not at all,” he answered:  and though his words were purposely indifferent, his wife, knowing all his tones and ways by heart, was not deceived.  “He is afraid of that woman,” she whispered to herself; “or else afraid of me.”  But she said no more.

“Have you come to any definite understanding with Mr. Carradyne in regard to Peacock’s Range, Eliza?”

“He will not come to any; he is civilly obstinate over it.  Laughs in my face with the most perfect impudence, and tells me:  ’A man must be allowed to put in his own claim to his own house, when he wants to do so.’”

“Well, Eliza, that seems to be only right and fair.  Percival made no positive agreement with us, remember.”

“Is it right and fair!  That may be your opinion, Philip, but it is not mine.  We shall see, Mr. Harry Carradyne!”

“Dinner is served, ma’am,” announced the old butler.

That evening passed.  Sunday passed, the last day of the dying year; and Monday morning, New Year’s day, dawned.

* * * * *

New Year’s Day.  Mr. and Mrs. Hamlyn were seated at the breakfast-table.  It was a bright, cold, sunny morning, showing plenty of blue sky.  Young Master Walter, in consideration of the day, was breakfasting at their table, seated in his high chair.

“Me to have dinner wid mamma to-day!  Me have pudding!”

“That you shall, my sweetest; and everything that’s good,” assented his mother.

In came Japhet at this juncture.  “There’s a little boy in the hall, sir, asking to see you,” said he to his master.  “He—­”

“Oh, we shall have plenty of boys here to-day, asking for a new year’s gift,” interposed Mrs. Hamlyn, rather impatiently.  “Send him a shilling, Philip.”

“It’s not a poor boy, ma’am,” answered Japhet, “but a little gentleman:  six or seven years old, he looks.  He says he particularly wants to see master.”

Philip Hamlyn smiled.  “Particularly wants a shilling, I expect.  Send him in, Japhet.”

The lad came in.  A well-dressed beautiful boy, refined in looks and demeanour, bearing in his face a strange likeness to Mr. Hamlyn.  He looked about timidly.

Eliza, struck with the resemblance, gazed at him.  Her husband spoke.  “What do you want with me, my lad?”

“If you please, sir, are you Mr. Hamlyn?” asked the child, going forward with hesitating steps.  “Are you my papa?”

Every drop of blood seemed to leave Philip Hamlyn’s face and fly to his heart.  He could not speak, and looked white as a ghost.

“Who are you?  What is your name?” imperiously demanded Philip’s wife.

“It is Walter Hamlyn,” replied the lad, in clear, pretty tones.

And now it was Mrs. Hamlyn’s turn to look white.  Walter Hamlyn?—­the name of her own dear son! when she had expected him to say Sam Smith, or John Jones!  What insolence some people had!